Vermillion
by Mac an bhaird
Summary: Jane has suffered a second breakdown and been locked up in psychiatric care, but if he did try to kill himself why can't he remember anything about it? My first fanfic. a little slow to start but if it's not panned i'll post the other chapters.


**DISCLAIMER: I don't own The Mentalist or anything affiliated with it. **

** My first chapter of my first fanfic ever so i encourage any feedback/tips please be gentle. It's a little slow to start with our lovely protagonist suffering from a second breakdown. **

'Patrick? Patrick?' The tired, dull blue eyes of the patient shot open accompanied by a sharp intake of breath. He wasn't looking at her. He rarely looked at anyone here, what was the point? They're all the same anyway, little clones of each other breezing by the bed from time to time in their blue hospital uniforms. At least he didn't have to put up with the repugnant nurse that was head of suicide watch anymore. Every six minutes she'd look in at him through the small window of his locked room. A huge, domineering woman with her hair pulled back into a tight bun so as not to let any slip of femininity intrude upon her wide face, which was often moped with sweat from the heat of the hallway. Her jaw was always tense and with her thick black eyebrows hanging over her scrutinizing eyes she'd peer in at him as if he were some caged animal, not to be trusted.

'Patrick? Are you with us today?' This nurse sounded young, pretty. A slim, blond haired, blue eyed, type of girl he'd wager. He looked up just to satisfy curiosity. Green eyes. Well two out of three isn't bad, he thought.

'I'm with you every day. That's what seems to be the problem.' he suddenly felt sorry for this young girl, after all she was only doing her job, 'Sorry, just….tired.'

'Well, you've been sleeping for about fifteen hours Mr. Jane. Don't you remember? You had quite an episode yesterday, managed to paint up to about forty smiley faces on the wall.' She could see by his confused expression that he had no recollection. He shook his head slightly in disbelief, there were no markings on his wall now. Was she lying? He had no pencils, no pens, no sharp objects were allowed in the psychiatric unit. 'How?', he eventually managed to mumble. She said nothing but simply stared. He followed her gaze down to his hands. Slowly turning them over he was greeted with a multitude of swelling, raw and bloody marks all over his fingertips.

'You managed to bite at yourself until you bled. Don't worry about it, we cleaned it all up after Dr. Lengiz gave you something to help you calm down and get some rest. I brought some dinner down for you.' She whipped the tin foil off the plastic tray with a flourish, 'Now, let's see what the finest culinary minds have prepared for sir's discerning palette today. Ah, pommes de terre et un saucisson avec des oignons. That's….'

'- Potatoes, sausage and onions, I know.' He managed a slight smile, if only for her benefit. She was the first person in this place that had treated him like an equal. He could tell how much she wanted to cheer him, to feel she had helped. He figured he'd let her have her moment. 'Three of the blandest foods the good earth can provide. They've outdone themselves.', he sighed. Now it was her turn to smile.

'Just try a little,' she coaxed, 'You've a big day tomorrow, you're being moved to the open ward. It means you'll have to talk to other patients and we won't spoil you like we do here in the special care rooms.' With that her pager went off, 'Ugh, these things. Duty calls, I'll be calling in on you tomorrow again Patrick and if you need anything my name is nurse Hanlon.' She gave a kindly, warm smile. The first non-patronising smile he'd seen in over two months.

He set the food tray on the floor and rested his head back on the thin hospital issue pillows. 'How had this happened?' he thought,' How had he let himself fall back to this place?' The last thing he remembered was Lisbon, in his house. She was calling out to him but he couldn't answer. He was on the floor, barely conscious. The feeling of helplessness came flooding back, how much he'd wanted to call her name, how much he wanted to let her know he was okay, how much he wanted to tell her he was frightened. He hated it. Hated remembering, hated being here, hated himself for not knowing how it had all ended up like this. He hadn't seen her since. No visitors were allowed for special care patients. He just wanted peace, a rest from all this confusion. He closed his eyes only to see those all too familiar smiley faces grinning back at him.

This was hell.


End file.
